


Like a Secret I’m Not Supposed to Know

by bubblepulp



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: 1880, 8018, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 19:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblepulp/pseuds/bubblepulp
Summary: “During a robbery, you’re surprised when the criminals seem to recognize you and retreat in fear. Only later do you learn that your high school sweetheart now runs a global crime syndicate and has you placed on a ‘No Harm’ list. You decide to pay them a visit after all these years.”Yamamoto is still a baseball idiot but Hibari is no longer a little frog in a well.





	Like a Secret I’m Not Supposed to Know

It had been an hour since Yamamoto’s plane touched down at Narita airport, thirty two since he’d caught anything more than a handful of hours of sleep, and seventy eight since he had been released from the police station back in New York. 

Sleep deprivation, coupled with the fact that the storefront of TakeSushi hadn’t changed a single bit in the past few months, made this homecoming feel surreal. Like at any moment, his alarm was going to blare to life and wake him up from the fleeting dream that had been the past few days. While he had planning to come home to visit during the off-season for months, he hadn’t thought his send-off would have been so… chaotic. 

He gave himself a few moments to let reality settle in, shielding his eyes from the sun. He watched a few pedestrians walk past, chattering animatedly in a language that sounded strange but soothing after all of his time away. After probing lightly for any sign of illusions and turning up empty handed, he let out a small exhale of breath in relief. Hefting his carry on bag over his shoulder, Yamamoto slid the wooden door of the restaurant open, weariness ebbing do a dull ache just at being greeted with the cheerfully familiar, “ _Irasshaimase_!”

“ _Tadaima_!” Yamamoto called back in answer, grin widening as his old man looked up from clearing a table, surprise and affection warring for dominance on his face.

“Takeshi! I would have picked you up! It would have saved you train fare!” His father scolded good naturedly, Yamamoto putting his hands up in a defensive stance, as if he could save himself from his old man’s lecture just with that.

“My bad, I didn’t want to trouble you. With everything that happened, I wasn’t even sure if I was going to still be able to visit.” Yamamoto said lightly, moving towards the back of the restaurant so he could drop his bag on the floor, sitting down heavily at one of the barstools. His father put his cleaning rag aside to flip the sign out front to ‘closed’, expression serious. Though he had been expecting this, it didn’t make Yamamoto anymore prepared to have this conversation. 

“Did they catch them?” His father asked, voice low and severe, lacking any of the warmth that it had housed just a few seconds earlier. For some reason, it made him think of Sawada Tsunayoshi. It was an odd thought, considering he hadn’t heard from Tsuna in months now since they hadn’t kept in touch regularly since high school. But Tsuna was all smiles and clumsy antics until someone he loved was in harm’s way. Then he could become colder and deadlier than almost anyone Yamamoto knew. 

“Yes, but since they didn’t technically take anything, I don’t think they can be charged with much.” Yamamoto said, recalling how a group of ten men had forced their way into the restaurant he and his team had been celebrating in. The riotous, punch-drunk happy atmosphere from their win had quickly shattered into confusion then terror once the men had demanded their valuables, forcing everyone to their knees. Yamamoto had remembered how the alcohol he had drank curdled in his stomach, sour with anger and the knowledge that he could do something about this. He had been two seconds from seeing if one of the nearby table legs could be used as an effective weapon when one of the criminals had caught sight of him.

And blanched.

“The news covered the story.” His father offered up, expression sliding into something more neutral now that he knew he didn’t have to pick up his sword again. He headed behind the counter to start preparing some choice slices of fatty tuna, knife strokes quick and efficient. The sound of his knife against the cutting board was strangely soothing, and Yamamoto was tempted to just pillow his head into his arms and sleep for about a week. Just recounting the experience was enough to get his adrenaline spiking, hot and jittery through his system, but with each subsequent retelling he felt more wrung out then alert. And he’d been over this countless times with the police, the team’s lawyers, and his own teammates. 

If he didn’t have to talk about the incident anytime soon, he’d count himself as lucky, but he knew his old man too well. He wasn’t going to let it lie.

“They said no one was hurt and that nothing valuable was taken, but they didn’t explain what caused the robbers to let everyone go.” His father shot him a sly, assessing look as he slid a plate over, and Yamamoto stuffed a few fatty tuna nigiri into his mouth to buy himself some time. While seafood in New York was nothing to turn up one’s nose at, Yamamoto had missed his father’s cooking more than anything. Being able to eat it here and now, after an arduous past few days, was like settling into a warm bath after a long practice. It helped relax him, and made him more pliable. 

When the police had asked the same question, he had played dumb. He wasn’t sure why the robbers had let them go or why they were fearful of him. Maybe they were fans who hadn’t realized one of their favorite players was at the restaurant that night. He had been too afraid to remember what one of them had said to him in Japanese, sorry he couldn’t be of more help.

But here, nestled in the comforting safety and familiarity of his father’s shop, knowing that if he chose to answer truthfully or not wouldn’t make his father think any less of him, Yamamoto wanted to tell the truth.

“It might have to do with Hibari.” Yamamoto said slowly, still not sure how he felt about _that_ exactly, but one of his would-be robber had been very clear.

‘Tell Hibari we didn’t know and that we apologize! We won’t bother you or this team again!’

It had been nagging him these past seventy eight hours, once the shock had worn off. Hibari Kyouya wasn’t a name he had ever thought he’d hear again, much less in a context where it had anything to do with him. Even after all of these years, he still wasn’t sure how to characterize their relationship in high school. Sparring partners? Teammates? Boyfriends? Lovers? Hibari hadn’t been interested in such distinctions, and Yamamoto had just been grateful to be allowed into the other boy’s life. But it had ended as suddenly as it had begun, and while it was mostly amicable, it was still Hibari. Yamamoto hadn’t heard anything from him after that time, but he supposed it was to be expected. Hibari wasn’t known for sentimentality or keeping in touch just for the sake of it.

“If it has to do with Hibari, Tsuna would know about it.” His father offered lowly, serving up another plate. Yamamoto glanced up at him, wide eyed with surprise, and his old man let out a full belly laugh, slapping Yamamoto on the shoulder that was stronger than he remembered. “What? You didn’t think I would keep track of your friends for you? Tsuna is a good boy, and he checks up on me often. You should bring him a gift as thanks.” 

“I will.” Yamamoto said, the tension in his shoulders easing at his father’s easy smile, at the thought of checking in on Tsuna after all this time to see what he was up to. Tsuna had tended to surprise him nearly every day in high school. He could only imagine what he had been up to during these past few months. “But tonight the Swallows are playing the Tigers and I don’t want to miss it!”

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

“Tenth, that useless baseball idiot is here.” Gokudera Hayato had grown a few centimeters taller and had lost a bit of the baby fat around his face, but otherwise he was completely recognizable, right down to his poor attitude. Yamamoto would be put out if he wasn’t expecting worse, and at the greeting he just laughed, slinging an arm around Gokudera’s shoulder, careful not to drop the ostentatious boat stuffed full of food he had brought.

“Oh! You’re here too Gokudera? This really brings me back!” Gokudera grit his teeth and bore it far longer than he had before, but eventually he shoved him off, taking the sushi gift boat as he slunk back into the Sawada household. The last time he had seen Gokudera, he had been shouting obscenities and curses at him, his face pinched as if he wasn’t sure whether he was going to continue raging or cry. A light shove was escaping from his wrath easy. 

“Yamamoto! Welcome! Please come in!” Tsuna, in contrast, looked about the same but his demeanor was markedly different. He still ducked his head shyly as he let Yamamoto in, but he was completely relaxed in his own skin, a predator trying to seem deceptively small and nonthreatening by curling in upon itself. His eyes that were tracking Yamamoto from underneath his messy hair were warm, but unreadable. 

The last time Yamamoto had seen Tsuna, he had looked exhausted and resigned, clutching the Vongola Ring for the Rain Guardian in his hand. He hadn’t seemed surprised, and he had never begrudged Yamamoto his choice. Unlike Gokudera who probably wouldn’t understand why Yamamoto had left until his dying day, and would spend just as long being pissed about it.

“Ignore the mess please! Giannini and Basil are visiting so we haven’t had much time to keep everything neat!” Tsuna continued, embarrassment written in every line of his posture, and he bypassed the living room completely as he headed upstairs. His room was just like Yamamoto had remembered it, right down to the books littered all over the table. However, instead of math or English, it seemed like the subjects were law and Italian. If the bright red marks all over his papers were anything to go by, Tsuna was still his trusted failure buddy.

“Nothing’s really changed, has it?” Yamamoto said happily, taking his customary seat on one side of Tsuna as Gokudera, who was bringing up tea and snacks, sat on the other. “You seem as popular as always!” He laughed at Tsuna’s long suffering expression, nudging their shoulders together amicably.

“We watched your game the other night.” Tsuna said tactfully to change the subject, haphazardly stacking his books and papers together to make room for the snacks, dumping them carelessly on his bed. “Congratulations on your victory! You guys played really well!”

During middle school and into high school, Tsuna had faithfully attended as many of Yamamoto’s games as he could. Though his grasp of baseball was dubious at best, he had always been the one to cheer the loudest, so Yamamoto couldn’t say he was surprised that Tsuna was still following his games even now. But confirmation of that knowledge warmed Yamamoto far more than the tea, and he sent Tsuna a soft, grateful smile.

“Thanks Tsuna. It’s good to know I still have friends rooting for me. And looking after my old man.” Yamamoto said with a grin, about to add more when Gokudera cut him off forcefully.

“Your fielding still sucks. That play in the seventh inning was shameful.” Gokudera began, because while Tsuna took to the spirit of the game, Gokudera had immersed himself in baseball once he had learned about the statistics side of it. Yamamoto occasionally sent him job openings for baseball staticians, and the curt rude texts he got back were always good for a laugh. 

If left to his own devices, Gokudera would deconstruct the game and lecture Yamamoto on his many shortcomings, but it seemed like Tsuna had other plans for the conversation.

“Your dad has always been good to us. He gives us deep, deep discounts.” Tsuna’s mouth twisted at that, embarrassed at being treated as special and also rueful. Of the two Yamamotos, his old man was definitely more stubborn and wouldn’t lose to anyone when he put his mind to it. “More importantly, we heard about that attempted robbery. Was anyone hurt?” Tsuna asked, his expression conveying nothing but innocent wide eyed warmth and concern, but Yamamoto had seen this same man tear people apart for just _thinking_ of harming anyone he loved. And Yamamoto may no longer be the Rain Guardian for the Vongola, but he was still _familigia_. Titles and time wouldn’t change that, and that was comforting as well as terrifying. 

“No one was hurt! It’s nothing you need to worry about!” Yamamoto paused, wrapping his hands around his cup of tea. As much as he disliked what the robbers had done, it wasn’t worth them losing their lives over. If they were still alive at any rate. Besides, he was more interested in how much these two knew. “Apparently Hibari might have taken care of it.”

He had meant it to be more of a question, but when he looked up at Tsuna and Gokudera, it didn’t look like they were surprised. Gokudera’s mouth twisted down distastefully, and Tsuna met his gaze, calm and sure. 

“I thought he might. Does that bother you?” Tsuna asked, low and deliberate. In middle school, Yamamoto would have been seriously worried about Tsuna if he had thought about being in the same room as Hibari. Much less having a word with him for Yamamoto’s sake. Now it was difficult to say who he would worry about more. Definitely both of them, he decided after a moment’s deliberation, but for very different reasons. 

“It’s something I should talk to him about directly.” Yamamoto said, not trying to be evasive, but knowing it could be taken that way. But part of why he and Hibari had worked as well as they had was because he understood and respected his need for privacy. He knew Tsuna and Gokudera wouldn’t say anything, just the fact that Yamamoto had confirmed Hibari’s involvement would be enough to make the other man annoyed.

Tsuna let out a little thoughtful hum, his expression approving. “You’re right. If you want to talk to him about it, you have good timing. Hibari-san’s been back for a few days and he typically stays at least a week before leaving.” That sort of thoroughness smacked of Gokudera, and when Yamamoto glanced over at the silver-haired man to confirm, the ex-Vongola Rain found him scowling deeply but he didn’t offer any corrections.

“Ah, I’ll pay him a visit then. Thank you.” Yamamoto said with a quick grin, before deciding to ask about the other elephant in the room. “How’s the mafa roleplaying game going?” Yamamoto asked carelessly as he reached for a rice cracker, laughing at the way that Gokudera grit his teeth and started mentally counting to ten again. Only twice in less than ten minutes? Yamamoto must be losing his touch. 

Tsuna seemed amused despite himself, ducking his head down to hide his smile instead of putting Gokudera out of his misery. “It’s going well. I-Pin has made a great Rain Guardian.”

“And there’s the added bonus that she keeps that shitty cow in line so I don’t have to.” Gokudera said, admirably not rising to the bait, even though his fingers seemed like they were itching for a cigarette. It was strange to see that he still had that tell, even though as far as Yamamoto knew, he had given up smoking halfway through high school. Yamamoto could remember those months that Gokudera had weaned himself off of his bad habit clearly, mostly because he was even more temperamental and short tempered than normal and Yamamoto had cheerfully bore the brunt of it.

“But we always have room for you, if you were thinking of playing again.” Tsuna said with a wry smile, like he shared Yamamoto’s secret. Which was fine. An insightful guy like Tsuna understood Yamamoto better than most. Perhaps the only people who rivaled him being his old man, the little guy, Squalo, and Hibari himself. Even after all these years and the distance, Tsuna was still here for him. Well, it was just as well. It would be awkward if the bone deep loyalty only went one way.

“Anytime you need me, you know I’ll help out.” Yamamoto said truthfully, because he hadn’t quit the mafia roleplaying game because he hadn’t wanted to protect his friends or because he had gotten scared. Baseball was his dream first and foremost, and after the whole mess with Jager, everything had calmed down significantly. There wasn’t a need for a swordsman, and thus there wasn’t a reason to ignore the siren’s call of the Major Leagues anymore. Tsuna hadn’t faulted him for that, and in fact, had looked desperately grateful that one of them was going to lead a somewhat normal life.

“If you want to help, you should go bother that shark bastard. Every time we see him he asks after you.” Gokudera gritted out, and Yamamoto laughed at the thought, pleased. Squalo had been the person who had been the angriest when he had decided to try to play professional ball, calling it ‘a waste’ and had said some choice things about what sort of balls he could chase after if that’s what he wanted to do.

But every now and then, Yamamoto was sure he saw him in one of the luxury boxes, shouts muffled by the glass. 

He ducked his head to hide his smile for a moment, before glancing up at Gokudera, eyes wide and guileless.

“As Tsuna’s right hand man, shouldn’t you be able to defeat him in my stead?” Which only devolved into a shouting match, Gokudera’s hand fisting into the front of his shirt as Tsuna tried to calm him down. It was enough to make him laugh, carefree and light.

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Yamamoto had been to Hibari’s mansion exactly once before, but it had left such a stark impression on him that he remembered exactly where it was without getting turned around once. 

It had been a few months into their... understanding, and Hibari had said something along the lines of ‘to catch a tiger’s cubs you have to go into its den’. It had been hilarious because in no way was Hibari anything less than a top chain predator even then, and because it had sounded like a challenge. The lilting smirk tugging on the corners of Hibari’s lips hadn’t helped any, desire pooling hot and heavy in Yamamoto’s gut at the goad and promise in that expression.

It had stayed with him for a whole week, a low simmer threatening to bubble over as he had bided his time. He’d casually let himself into the school record’s room to look up Hibari’s address, and then he’d spent the rest of the week after baseball practice scoping the place out. He’d heard from Ryohei-senpai that Hibari’s house was big, but the word didn’t do it justice. He hadn’t seen so much space for one house until he moved to America years later, and there were still few that came close to its grandeur. Or its retine of armed guards. 

The rumors that Hibari came from yakuza affiliated family seemed to be right, and though Yamamoto never saw Hibari’s family during his vigil, he had overheard snippets of small talk. Hibari apparently took after his mother in looks and temperament, and his father was unknown. There were a few guard dogs on the property, but they could be bribed with a few specific dog biscuits made right on the premise. Hibari’s room was at the back of the house because he preferred his solitude even at home. But more importantly, it was strange to hear about their opinions about Hibari. It seemed split pretty evenly down the middle for those who feared but grudgingly admired him and those who thought he was just a spoiled brat.

Unsurprisingly, the ones who thought Hibari was just a pampered prince with a terrible temper were the ones who were more lacksadasial about their shifts, and on Saturday after practice, he had scaled one of the houses next door to the Hibari complex. It had been raining steadily all day, but as if luck or Buddha was on his side, water had started sluicing down in torrents, helping muffle his footsteps and blur his outline. Once he’d made it to the roof of Hibari’s room, it was smooth sailing. 

Obligingly, Hibari was perched on the ledge of his open window as if he had been expecting Yamamoto. His mouth had curved upwards in interest as Yamamoto had crossed the distance to him. Yamamoto had been roughly pulled into Hibari’s Spartan room, then peeled out of his wet baseball clothes impatiently. Hibari had left them in a pile at the edge of the bed, soaking into his tatami matt floor as he warmed Yamamoto with his mouth and hands before taking him apart with his clever fingers. 

As Yamamoto had gripped onto Hibari’s silken sheets, skin damp more from sweat than rain water, Hibari had leaned in, lips brushing against his ear.

“Should I devour you now, Yamamoto Takeshi?” And just like that his world had gone white, awash with pleasure that had been building up for a week. No, that had been building for far, far longer.

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

Needless to say, Yamamoto hadn’t spent much time admiring or noticing the decour, but once Kusakabe showed him into one of numerous sitting rooms, he had more than enough time. 

Yamamoto counted ten large ornamental vases that seemed to be actual antiques and not like the mass produced ones that his old man had at home. There were five wall scrolls with poems signed by an author Yamamoto was sure he’d spent learning about at school, and a miniature forest of bonsai trees artfully arranged around the room. The sliding doors were closed, but if Yamamoto opened them up to a courtyard with a koi pond and with a _shishi-odoshi_ working overtime, it would complete the picture of wealth. Even the floor cushions felt new and opulent, unlike the well worn set that was at his house, and Yamamoto had to fight his instincts to sit up ramrod straight, like a child afraid of moving for fear of breaking something priceless.

Looking at how orderly and fragile everything was in the room, it wasn’t difficult to understand why Hibari was the way he was. This was a house that was held together by tradition and strict rules. Everything had its proper place, where it was meticulously tended to, and would be replaced if the slightest bit of wear showed on it. To live freely, one had to become strong enough to challenge the very foundation of one’s upbringing. It made him recall memories of Hibari as he often had seen him, gripping his tonfas stubbornly, fighting stance set, eyes narrowed at the enemies around him. Unyielding and unwavering and beautiful. 

With those sorts of thoughts swirling in his mind, Yamamoto started when the door slid open, relaxing only when he saw that it was Kusakabe with tea. He bowed his head slightly in thanks as he picked up his cup, about to ask how much longer he might have to wait when the other set of sliding doors that led out into a garden ( and what suspiciously looked like a koi pond ) slammed open. 

Even after six years, Yamamoto could still read the annoyance in Hibari’s face, the tenseness of his shoulders when he was spoiling for a fight, his movements still graceful and feline as he crossed the room to settle primly across from Yamamoto, hardly spoiling the starch lines of his yukata. His features, which had always been delicate and fine, had sharpened into a deadly beauty not unlike a sword, but his expressions hadn’t changed one bit. Yamamoto’s heart twisted painfully in his ribcage, out of dormant affection flaring back to life or nostalgia, he couldn’t say. Yamamoto hadn’t exactly been celibate or single since he had been with Hibari, but he would be hard pressed to name someone who he had fallen for as soundly. But first loves were supposed to be like that, right?

“Yamamoto Takeshi.” Hibari said, exactly as he always had, a greeting and the start of a dismissal if Yamamoto didn’t have a good reason for being here. Despite his barely contained ire, he picked up his tea cup delicately, eyes half lidded and simmering. It was the assessing look of a predator, trying to decide whether the person before him was prey or not.

“Yo, Hibari.” Yamamoto replied cheerfully, raising a hand in greeting, fighting back the urge to laugh at how Hibari’s expression turned adorably murderous. “It’s been a long time! How have you been?”

Much like how Gokudera had taken a few moments to compose himself and quell his temper earlier, Hibari did much the same, though he was more placid about it. There was a small downturn of his mouth and a small furrow between his eyebrows, easy to miss if one hadn’t been allowed to study his face for prolonged periods of time. Had anyone else had, besides Yamamoto? Had Hibari let anyone let that close again?

To stave off those thoughts and to keep Hibari from throwing him out, Yamamoto leaned forward onto the table, grinning. “Or maybe it’d be better if we spar first?”

 _That_ seemed to get Hibari’s attention, his answering grin far more sinister, but all the tension drained immediately out of his shoulders. Hibari slowly finished his tea, letting Yamamoto admire the way his throat worked as he swallowed, before setting it down. With an approving tilt of his chin, he turned to walk back out the way he came, Yamamoto following along obediently. 

A guy like Hibari was only difficult to read if you didn’t pay attention, and Yamamoto was good at nothing else but persevering and understanding others. Hibari was intelligent, so he was easily bored. When something caught his interest, he’d chase after it obsessively until he had learned all there was to know. He could admit his faults, but his definition of a flaw was one that inconvenienced him or held himself back. He was territorial over things he had staked a claim on, from the school to his Foundation to his pets. Instead of talk, he preferred actions. 

And Yamamoto would be lying if he wasn’t curious to see just how strong Hibari had become since he had last seen him, and to also test his own sword for rust. The last time he’d had a practice bout was with Squalo, years ago when he had said he was going to focus on baseball instead of the sword. They’d fought for _days_ before Squalo had grudgingly let him go, but Hibari wouldn’t be as merciful.

A few doors down to the sitting room Yamamoto had been waiting in, there was a sparring room, perhaps the most lived in portion of the house yet. Everywhere Yamamoto looked, there were signs of boards having recently been replaced, the polish couldn’t completely hide all the scuff marks that told Yamamoto of the fierce battles fought here, and one of the walls had a hastily applied patch to it. The sight made him laugh, glad to see something lively in such an orderly house, and Hibari glanced at him, inquiring. His mouth only quirked up ferally when Yamamoto pointed out the patch, before he turned to face Yamamoto fully, chin tilted up as arrogantly as always.

“I only have time for three rounds.” Hibari said succinctly as he slid into a stance, smirk widening as Yamamoto withdrew Shigure Kintoki from the baseball bat container he hid it in.

“I’ll make them count then!” Yamamoto called cheerily, not wasting a moment or a movement before launching himself towards Hibari.

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

In the end, Yamamoto barely lasted through those three rounds. It was a miracle considering Hibari had somehow managed to become even more monstrous in the past few years, and Yamamoto was mostly relying on muscle memory and reflexes as he fought.

Lying flat on his back, wondering if Hibari had broken anything or if he was really in just that much pain, Kusakabe crouched down next to him and gently tucked his business card in Yamamoto’s front jacket pocket.

“We have some business up in Tokyo until next week.” Kusakabe said as an apology, more regretful that they were leaving before Yamamoto could siphon out more of Hibari’s bad temper than at the state he was leaving the baseball player in. Good to see that Kusakabe was still as stalwart as ever, too. “We can set up a proper meeting then.”

“Tetsu.” Hibari called unconcerned and not even winded, the jerk, tucking his tonfas back into his yukata as he exited without sparing a glance at Yamamoto.

“Someone will see you out shortly.” Kusakabe said quickly, before jogging after Hibari as Yamamoto held up a weak thumb’s up. A week definitely wasn’t enough time to catch up to Hibari, but he’d had worse time crunches. 

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

“Are you even taking this seriously?” Squalo shouted with a sneer after spending the better part of twelve hours savagely kicking Yamamoto all over the old training field in the woods. As if his shouting wasn’t enough to voice his displeasure, he spat not too far from Yamamoto’s prone body, nudging him with his boot. “I was going to see if you were even worth scouting, but if you’re this weak, you wouldn’t even be able to beat Levi.”

“Isn’t he still a pretty high ranking officer?” Yamamoto asked with a breathless laugh, flexing his fingers to make sure they weren’t broken, before wrapping them back around the hilt of his sword. Squalo made an ugly face at that, as if to say ‘don’t remind me’, watching Yamamoto struggle upright with the look of someone watching a butterfly fight against a pin in its back. 

Every muscle in his body screamed out in complaint as he slowly hefted himself up into a sitting position, having not only just borne the violent rage of Hibari, but now Squalo as well. It hurt just to breathe, and Yamamoto was sure he had bruises all over blossoming into ugly colors across his skin, but perhaps he was a bit masochistic to lean into the bite of pain. He was comforted in the fact that the pain he was feeling was temporary and fleeting, muscles being torn apart only to build back up to make him stronger. He would just have to wait it out, patiently and calmly. 

“I don’t know why I haven’t killed you yet. You’re a disgrace as a Sword Emperor.” Squalo said sharply, but his killing intent had simmered down to a normal level. Still oppressive, but Yamamoto wasn’t in any immediate danger. He relaxed slightly as Squalo started running his fingers through his unruly hair, looking unimpressed but willing to give him a small breather.

“Does it still count if I haven’t won a hundred battles?” Yamamoto asked to rile him up, but Squalo didn’t take the bait, instead narrowing his gaze at him. It was like he saw right through him and was more annoyed that Yamamoto was trying such an obvious tactic than by the jab itself.

“Give up on baseball already.” When Yamamoto only laughed at the old familiar argument, Squalo’s scowl deepened, his irritation ( and the volume of his voice ) steadily rising. “Then why are you meeting with damn brat of Reborn’s if you’re not thinking of going back into the fold? Or men like Hibari Kyouya, who have no interest in fangless worms?” Which, if Squalo’s pointed look was anything to go by, was what Yamamoto was at the moment.

“Are you a relationship counselor now too?” Yamamoto asked with interest, leaning forward with an open and interested expression. The splash of pain at that movement was rewarded with Squalo’s inventive curses involving his lineage and his ancestors, which only made Yamamoto grin. If it was a bit too amused to look completely innocent, well, no one had to know but Squalo. 

“You’d be a pain in the ass, but we’d take you in.” Squalo pointedly avoided his gaze as he said so, knocking the dirt off of his boots with his sword casually, having said his piece. It was as close as Yamamoto was getting to Squalo extending a hand to him, and it touched him. Closeness and understanding or not, Yamamoto knew that Squalo’s loyalty to the Varia was tantamount to his dedication to Xanxus. He wouldn’t let just anyone in, much less extend the invitation personally. How many people could claim to be scouted by Superbi Squalo? 

“I appreciate it.” Yamamoto started out, but Squalo cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Whatever you decide to do, do it quick. I don’t have any patience for your half-measures.” Squalo snapped, a man who had never been indecisive in his life. Which for better or for worse, was part of the reason Yamamoto liked speaking with him. Squalo always cut to the heart of any matter and left the excess where it fell. Yamamoto could be caught up in his own head, he knew, and while he would get it straightened out in the end, sometimes it was a mess. Now being one of those times. 

Why was he wavering now? Just because he had found out he was under Hibari’s protection, that was no reason to involve himself in Hibari’s, and consequently the mafia’s, affairs. If he just wanted an answer as for why Hibari had placed him on his protection list, he already knew that. Hibari was unflaggingly territorial, and even when Yamamoto had just been a student at Namimori, any harm that befell him had been an attack on the school. He could only imagine that sort of possessiveness had only worsened when they had become more… acquainted. 

If he had wanted to start playing the mafia roleplaying game again, he would have accepted Tsuna’s offer to allow him back into the family. True, he’d only be a fringe player, but for Tsuna, everyone was important and cherished. Yamamoto was the same, whether it came to friends made while playing baseball or the mafia game. His friends had always been important to him, even more so than baseball. If this had happened during a crisis, he would have put in his notice to his team before dropping everything and returning here. But it was peacetime, with nothing for him to do but sharpen his skills and wait for a fight that might never come.

No, the reason he was back was because he wanted to know about Hibari’s feelings for him. He could, he supposed, have just asked Kusakabe who was easier to communicate with than his leader. But it still left him at a crossroads. What if Hibari still did feel the same way? What would he do with that knowledge? Leave his burgeoning career to pursue him? Reopen an old wound only to go back to America after the off-season like nothing had changed? Or, if Hibari didn’t feel that way anymore, would he leave it be or try to rekindle that flame?

He didn’t know how he wanted to react in either scenario, and it was making him restless and a little reckless. He felt like a benched player who had been too busy imaging being on the field to prepare properly, so they choked at their at bat. 

It helped if Yamamoto was moving while he thought, so he hefted his sword over one shoulder, beaming a smile that was guaranteed to infuriate Squalo. 

“Thank you for offering up your insight into career counseling and relationships.” Squalo scoffed at that, raising his sword again.

“One of these days I’m really going to kill you.”

 

 

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“So, when are they going to bump you up to the big league?” Taniguchi asked as he settled down heavily next to Yamamoto, fingers pinching the front of his shirt as he fanned himself off. His expression was as unassuming as always, though there was a keen look in his eyes like he was thinking about pitching a tricky slider and striking Yamamoto out. Of all the people he had left behind, the Namimori High School Baseball Team were the people he talked to most frequently. Of course, Namimori had been so small that most of the people he had played with in middle school had poured into the high school team, with Taniguchi being no exception. 

They had all believed that he was going to make it to NPB, and if he wanted, to the MLB. Yamamoto couldn’t count the number of times they had supported him, from blowing up his feed with pictures of them all posing with his jersey and baseball card, or how many times they would text him ‘don’t mind’ if his team lost a game or an incoherent string of emojis if they won. Perhaps it was the magic of baseball, that even though Yamamoto hadn’t seen Taniguchi for the better part of the year, it felt like it had just been yesterday when they had been doing fielding drills together or playing catch on the field. Practicing on the Nami High field was like being transported back to the past, a time when life had been ripe with possibilities and laughter.

Yamamoto finished peeling off his batting gloves, stuffing them carelessly into his back pocket as he sat down next to him. 

“I’ve only been there a short time-” Yamamoto said with a self-deprecating laugh, but Taniguchi waved him off impatiently.

“You keep saying that in your interviews but c’mon. Friend to friend. You know I won’t tell.” Taniguchi said solemnly, and Yamamoto _did_ know. He counted Taniguchi among his best friends, up there with Tsuna and Squalo. Which was strange because the thought of the three of them all in a room at once was laughable at best and violent at worst. 

“Yeah.” Yamamoto agreed easily, closing his eyes to take a deep breath of the fresh cut grass smell, of the crisp clean air, of the trees that constantly dropped their leaves onto the field. He felt at home here, comfortable, but as fiercely as he missed this place and the people here, his eyes were forward. “With the season I just had, they did tell me I should think about buying a house in the area.” He laughed brightly when Taniguchi leaned over grapple him, locking him in an arm lock as he ground a fist against the side of his head.

“I knew it! Even if you get bumped up, you still better respond to my texts!” Yamamoto was still laughing when Taniguchi shoved him away, standing up. At the solemn look on his friend’s face, his laughter died down, and he rubbed absently at the sore spot that Taniguchi had rubbed into his skull. “We all knew you would make it and we’re all proud of you.” 

The unexpected sentimentality, at a time when Yamamoto had felt guilty for wavering in his goals, cut like a knife right beneath his ribcage. Even if it had been for a moment, he had been second guessing what his true dream was when he knew any of his old teammates would have given anything to trade places with him. It felt like a dishonor to their pure well wishes and all the times they had encouraged him and believed in him. 

Smiling softly, he stood up, clapping Taniguchi on the shoulder.

“Don’t start that now! Save it for the team dinner!” Yamamoto teased, slinging an arm around Taniguchi’s shoulder as his old teammate half-heartedly tried to push him off.

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

The day before Hibari was going to return to Namimori, Yamamoto found the the little guy seated at the bar of TakeSushi, hat drawn low over his eyes and murmuring with his old man. He’d grown considerably since the last time Yamamoto had seen him, but he would recognize that knowing smirk anywhere, the way the little guy had held himself full of confidence and mystery.

“Yo!” Yamamoto had greeted, slightly buzzed from what had to be the fifth dinner he had with his old teammates, too warm even with the cool air outside. It was stifling to close the door, but he did so anyway, watching curiously as his old man gave a small nod to Reborn and disappeared back into the kitchen. By reflex, Yamamoto flipped the sign to ‘closed’ and took a seat next to him, feeling heavy and apprehensive.

Yamamoto had seen Reborn every so often, had felt his gaze piercing and all seeing from the stands at a few of his games or practices. Rarely, when there had been danger, Reborn had been waiting for him when he got home, all the lights out except for the lamp by his chair, like some old detective movie. The assignments had ranged from intel gathering to one assassination. As he picked up a pair of chopsticks to snag a few pieces of sushi off of Reborn’s plate, extra delicious with the help of booze, he wondered what to expect this time.

“You’re seeing Hibari tomorrow.” Reborn said, not a question, so Yamamoto didn’t do more than nod. “He won’t be satisfied by you deciding to keep playing baseball.” Though Yamamoto had just recently come to that conclusion on his own and hadn’t spoken to anyone about it, of course Reborn would already know. 

“It’s not his decision.” Yamamoto said lightly, and Reborn laughed, soft and smokey. 

“True. But you’re not letting him go this time either, are you?” When Yamamoto didn’t bother to answer, Reborn knocked him on the side of the head, none too lightly. “Selfish.”

“Yet I’m still your favorite.” Yamamoto retorted lightly, laughing at how Reborn hit him again, a bit harder. A love tap all things considered. 

“Barely.” They sat in a companionable silence for a few moments, before Reborn surprisingly broke it. “I have a compromise then, if you’re willing to hear it.” 

How like Reborn, to look out for his own and find a win-win situation. Or perhaps, how like this Reborn who had shaped and been shaped by Tsuna. Yamamoto chewed thoughtfully on his sushi before swallowing, shooting Reborn a half-lidded look, assessing. “I’m listening.”

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

When Yamamoto had lasted three bouts of ‘light sparing’ to Hibari’s satisfaction and the training room in his house had been all but destroyed, Hibari nodded his head in approval and slipped his tonfas back up his shirt sleeves. 

“Why are you here Yamamoto Takeshi?” He asked serenely, stepping through the rubble that had once been a doorway, uncaring as the last pillar that had been holding up the northwest corner of the room crumbled noisily behind him. Yamamoto sheathed his sword and followed after him, pressing his fingers to his ribs idly to check to see if anything was broken.

“You heard of the attempted robbery, right? One of the robbers mentioned you, so it seemed a good time to visit.” Nothing seemed to warrant immediate medical attention, and he nodded to Kusakabe as he opened the sliding screen door back to the sitting room Yamamoto had been seated in last week. There was already tea and a feast of fancy dishes spread out before them, Yamamoto’s stomach growling fiercely. He had almost forgotten what it was like when he was Hibari. Everything else peeled away until it was only the two of them, and things like eating or sleeping fell to the wayside. 

Primly, Hibari picked up a pair of chopsticks and started to tuck away cleanly and quickly. Yamamoto wondered if Hibari was even going to respond, but his hand stilled from picking up his own set of chopsticks when Hibari spoke again, more forcefully.

“ _Why_ are you here, Yamamoto Takeshi?” The look on Hibari’s face was one that Yamamoto had only seen once before, and guilt twisted in his gut like steel plunged into icy water. The last time Hibari Kyouya had looked hurt and uncertain had been when Yamamoto and the others had graduated. Yamamoto had told him then, underneath the cherry blossom trees in the courtyard like some facsimile of a love confession, that he was going to give Tsuna back the Vongola Ring. Hibari had known what that had meant, and that Yamamoto was serious about turning his back on swordsmanship. That their goals no longer aligned, and that instead of fighting alongside Hibari, he was taking a different path altogether. Hibari wasn’t interested in predators who played at being prey, who would choose baseball over the sword, and it had meant the end of them.

Yamamoto had expected him to hit him, back then, but he had just flashed that expression once before turning and walking away. There hadn’t been anything to say, really, and even though Yamamoto’s heart had felt cracked and fragile, he had been as sure in his choice then as he was now. The only difference was that he was learning he could devote himself to more than one thing at a time, and that he wanted to. Baseball was a team sport after all, and required everyone working together to win. Why should his interpersonal relationships be any different?

He met Hibari’s gaze as fearlessly as ever, a small hesitant smile curving his lips. 

“I’m going to be bumped up to the Major Leagues soon.” While he had made light of the possibility with his old teammates, who had razzed him for his attempts at humility, Hibari respected and responded well to honesty and people who were straightforward. The expression on his face smoothed out to a more annoyed and sour expression, and Yamamoto pressed onwards. “When I get the offer, I’m going to take it.” Before Hibari could throw him out for that alone, Yamamoto added quietly and quickly, “But it’s not the only offer I’ve gotten recently. I talked to the little guy.”

Mentioning Reborn or Mukuro was still the most effective way of getting Hibari’s attention, and his eyes sharpened with interest. “I’m still going to play baseball, but Reborn has been looking for an apprentice to train to take his title when he retires.”

With anyone else, he would undoubtedly get questions like ‘when was Reborn’s training going to start?’ or ‘how was he going to do both?’ since they would both be grueling. He could already see Tsuna’s immediate concern and nausea at the thought of what it would be like for Yamamoto to learn from Reborn and the possibility of there being two in the world. Gokudera would complain and gripe, but ultimately they’d work well together. Squalo would be pissed that Yamamoto would have the gall to think that he could be not only the Sword Emperor, but the greatest hitman in the world as well, but he’d be proud too. 

And Hibari… Well, Hibari tipped his head to the side, watching Yamamoto with a silver steel gaze, intrigued and pleased. Even if Hibari could be impatient with things like how quickly his opponents became worthy of his attention or a normal person’s walking speed, he could be unflaggingly patient when it came to important things. Doting on his pets, a proper tea ceremony, and waiting for his mate to come back to him. 

“Your answer?” Hibari prodded as he set down his chopsticks, gaze never leaving Yamamoto’s face, as if he didn’t already know.

“I start next Monday-” Yamamoto started to say, but Hibari had pushed the table between them impatiently to the side, the dishes rattling in protest at the rough treatment. He barely had time to let out a laugh ( some things never changed ), before Hibari was crawling toward him, all feline grace and liquid power as he pushed him down to the tatami matts, kissing him like he intended to devour him whole.

Yamamoto met him eagerly, mouth opening quickly to Hibari’s aggressive nipping, then his equally aggressive tongue sliding against his own. He had all but forgotten how quickly Hibari could go from lethargic to _this_ , ready to beat him in a match or bed him. Since he’d already done the first, Yamamoto wasn’t going to complain about getting the second. He shifted so that their mouths would fit together easier, no mean feat considering Hibari seemed intent to bite his lower lip clean off his face. Yamamoto’s hands had fisted in the front of Hibari’s yukata, and he tugged it down helpfully. Hibari was bare beneath it, a tease and a taunt all at once, and Yamamoto couldn’t help but groan at the heat of his skin burning against the palms of his hands. 

Hibari pulled away to shrug off the rest of his clothing, eyes never leaving Yamamoto’s, smirk widening as Yamamoto took in a sharp breath as he took in the sight of him. Hibari had always been sleek and elegant, all sharp and sculpted lines, not unlike some of the impossibly beautiful marble statues Yamamoto had seen in Roman museums. But where those statues had been lacking when it came to one particular muscle, Hibari didn’t have the issue.

His cock was already hard, flushed pink and pretty against the lean expanse of his stomach, and if Yamamoto licked his lips, well, he was only human. Kindly, Hibari let him have a moment to admire him before he was crawling into Yamamoto’s lap, one hand making quick work to get him out of his jeans and the other winding into Yamamoto’s hair to yank him up for more bruising kisses. The thing about Hibari was that any sort of pleasure also held the promise of pain, but as far as Yamamoto was concerned, all good things did. He didn’t protest, biting into Hibari’s mouth instead, rewarded with small snarls and growls. For someone who didn’t like to waste time on words, the noises Hibari made involuntarily went straight to Yamamoto’s cock.

He could feel Hibari’s smug smirk against his mouth as Yamamoto groaned as Hibari wrapped calloused and slender fingers around his member. He pumped him mockingly slow, the heat in his belly turning from something slow and heavy as lava to lightning through his veins, pleasure white hot and striking quickly. It left him gasping, pressing desperate kisses and bites into the hollow of Hibari’s throat, murmuring the tonfa wielder’s name over and over again as if it was a prayer that would grant him some mercy and relief. 

“Noisy.” Hibari commented in amusement, unbothered even when Yamamoto dug his nails into his shoulders and came, white and ropey over his fingers. Cottonheaded and lulled into complacency from his orgasm, he made no protest when Hibari reached into his back pocket, whistling slightly when he brought out a few condoms and packets of lube. Hibari shot him a look, that was half praise and half ‘how lewd’. “Wow.” Was all he said as he wiped his hand carelessly on Yamamoto’s jeans so he could rip open the foil of one of the condoms and lube packets.

“I didn’t want to make a mess.” Yamamoto said weakly, a sad defense considering the training room and the state of his clothing. 

“This room is lacking and should be bitten to death.” Hibari said as if Yamamoto’s consideration was a challenge, a familiar sharp toothed smile on his face as he yanked Yamamoto’s jeans down. He rolled the condom over his cock, lube slick fingers diving into Yamamoto’s entrance without preamble. It burned slightly, the ashes of his orgasm already stirring and giving life to another erection as Hibari’s clever fingers scissored into him, his teeth biting down into his shoulder. 

“It’s not that bad- ah!” He rolled his hips up as Hibari found his sweet spot as easily as Yamamoto could find it on a bat, arching his back off of the floor.

“To death.” Hibari murmured, pupils blown dark with lust, which sounded like a threat and promise all rolled into one. Yamamoto couldn’t say he minded either way when Hibari slammed into him and fucked him through another orgasm, heedless of how Yamamoto’s grasping limbs sent one of those priceless vases crashing to the floor. 

 

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

It’d been an hour since Yamamoto’s plane had landed back in New York, and he was still a little groggy from the flight. He had almost fallen asleep on the train and missed his connecting train when a text notification ( a chirping sound that sounded suspiciously like Hibird ) woke him. Eagerly, he went to check it, hoping against all odds that it was from Hibari. Instead, it was one of his old teammates checking in on him, and after responding, he went back to the text log between him and Hibari to check for the thousandth time he had actually sent him the text. His last text was still staring woefully at him, unanswered but read.

_If that’s the case, you should let those guys. I think they learned their lesson._

Kusakabe had let him know that Hibari had been keeping the would-be robbers in an undisclosed location and had been ‘teaching them manners’. Yamamoto had to feel bad for them, since they hadn’t known what they were getting into.

This long without anything in reply could signal Hibari was uninterested in responding and would do as he pleased or that he had decided to take a nap instead. Shrugging slightly, he got up as the train neared his stop, eyes widening as he spotted a familiar figure standing on the other side of the doors. 

“You do not command me, Yamamoto Takeshi. They deserve death for disturbing what is mine.” Hibari said, surly but not murderous, and the sharp warmth of his hand as he jabbed Yamamoto viciously in the side for crowding too close to him was enough to convince him he wasn’t dreaming.


End file.
